Revised "Eye" Essay

Aydin Reyhan
Creative Non-Fiction
Clashing Cultures
The TV, PC, PS3, heater and AC are the items that I most appreciate in my room. The silver Honda Civic on my driveway is what takes me away from my fortress to travel to palces where I can escape the electronic adventures. The roads are paved to perfection for a smooth drive with stop signs, red lights, yield signs, and speed limits controlling my actions. Dunkin Donuts, McDonalds, Applebee’s, and BP’s are our designated stops on our way throughout our journey. Ladies and gentlemen, this is America, the good old USn’A. We are used to this as most of us were born into this nation of freedom. So when we leave the country, we wonder what lies beyond.
I wake up to a black, metallic stove with a sliding mini-door which protects us from the burning fire wood. It’s the source of heat in the mountainous area of Turkey. No air conditioner, heater, or central air system. It is old fashioned.
A couch with beautiful flowers sewn unto its cushions is my bed. The hard wooden floor is painted brown to add a bit of spice to the all white room. The two big windows split me from the beautiful green grass that leads to a path to the top of the mountains in Rize, Turkey.
My aunt and uncle are sitting on the couch with a tiny table in front of them. Two cups of tea rest on the top while they converse in Turkish about the weather. My uncle is swinging a string holding roughly 33 beads that are tied in a 6 inch circle; prayer beads. It’s a religious custom to swing the beads right after a prayer but he likes to do it throughout the day for good luck.
The TV is on but no one is watching. It’s as if we left it on so there would never be a moment of silence whenever we choose to stay silent.
At home in Jersey, my parents are sitting at the dining room table conversing while watching the TV. It’s as if they are all attempting to speak over one another. My siblings are in their rooms while I am upstairs in my lonesome typing, watching TV, or simply thinking. We all split up as if we are on a group mission. It’s difficult to remember the last time we had a family dinner.
In Rize, we are always together in the kitchen/dining room. We talk, eat, drink, and sit together just to keep each other company. No internet, cell phone, or video games. We only have each other.
As I walk outside, the forty concrete steps descend to a dirt filled ground with rocks to compliment it. There is nothing but brick houses surrounded by a plethora of green trees in the distance. The country side of Turkey is like a prison for a city lover from the United States.
Women with scarves covering their hair hold the hands of their children walk on the dirt roads to their neighbor’s so they could have a cup of the famous tea while their children kick a size four rubber ball around. Pick-up trucks rumble as they roam throughout the country side spewing gas and smoke with their shocks battling the olden roads.
It breaks my heart to see all of these people fake smiles while here in the states I complain about the smallest of things. It honestly puts things into perspective.
Bottled water, Gatorade, and even alcohol can be bought at a local Quick Check or Wal-Mart in the states. Out there, it’s a relief just to get to a local convenience/grocery store.
The silver Mitsubishi 4x4 looks like an ordinary American pick-up truck on the outside, but from the inside, it’s a different story. Nothing but dirt roads and trees for a thirty minute drive to the inner city of Rize seems like a life time. Not moving any faster than 40 mph, it’s a bumpy ride. Men and women are on the sides of the dirt track with big bags of green tea leaves on their backs. They are marching like soldiers; staring straight ahead and not letting anyone/anything distract them.
We enter the city. It’s as if we crossed the border from a surrounding country. Buildings, paved roads, restaurants, and convenience stores surround us as we cruise on the main street. There are two grocery stores that within 300 feet of each other. It seems like a miracle.
In certain parts of New Jersey, it takes two minutes to hop onto Route 22. There, the giant buildings full of the goods we crave await our presence. It couldn’t be easier to get to our destination. In Turkey, it’s like a never ending journey to get to the city. Most of the province is country like; trees, mountains, brick houses, and mosques all over. It seems like the perfect fit for someone from Montana but could be unbearable for someone from Manhattan.
One of the sounds I hear as while sitting in the kitchen next to the fire-wood powered stove is a man singing into a megaphone. He does this 5 times a day, signaling that the time has come for prayer. It is three minutes long but absolutely soothing. The sound of his voice magically stops everyone from what they are doing to prepare for their prayer to God. This type of religious action is disallowed in the United States. We call it a free country but it’s only free if we follow the rules.
Standing on a small carpet with a picture of a mosque on it, I stand tall with my eyes staring straight ahead while covering my left hand with my right hand and resting them on my stomach. We all do this while facing the direction of the Kabah; where every single Muslim faithful prays towards to prove their love and loyalty to God. In America, people travel to churches, temples, or synagogues to pray. There is no man singing a prayer into a microphone.
McDonald’s and Burger King have the most famous American foods; the Big Mac and Whopper respectively. Those restaurants could be found almost anywhere. In Turkey, these places do not exist as much because food is a specialty.
As I look into the window, the Gyro is spinning around on its metal pole with the Kebab, rice, and salad being prepared delicately nearby. Chemicals do not exist near this delectable meal. The butter milk is poured into a tall, clear thin glass that is aligned with the fork, spoon, and knife. My mouth begins to water as my eyes and nose are teased with its delectable scent and appearance.
People sit on the streets with ripped clothing while polishing upper classmen’s shoes. Sweat drips from their faces while they stroke the brushes like zombies. “Hey buddy, I’ll give you one dollar to clean my shoes, and make it quick.”
The 12-15 year old child covered in dirt from head to toe nods his head and begins his job without breathing a word. It is absolutely degrading to see something like this. As an American, I can’t imagine this occurring on our streets in the US.
Some women walk about with scarves covering their heads and clothing covering their entire bodies. Here in the US, some women dress freely, covering only half of their bodies up while allowing the other half to be gazed upon by desperate men.
Football, Basketball, Baseball, and Hockey are what dominate the streets, fields, and courts in our nation. Overseas, Soccer is played on the streets, fields, and indoors.
Young children set up two goals made of trash cans and run around, attempting to kick a plastic ball in between the badly scented grayish cans. Mothers gaze down from the windows of their apartments to inform their children that dinner will be ready in five minutes. Even though their homes are thirty feet up, the wind guides the delicious scent my way. Turkish tea, rice, and freshly baked bread fill my nostrils.
The United States is where I was proudly born into. The city, lights, and pollution are part of who I am. However, sometimes even in the city, I smell the burning firewood and I close my eyes. The dirt road, trees, mountains, and brick houses automatically appear in my mind’s eye. It’s not the city, but it truly does feel like home.